For My Consideration

Earlier today I was asked by a four-time loser in the marriage game if my husband had changed after we got married.  Had his behavior altered significantly from his dating persona to his spousal persona?  After a brief consideration, I said no.

I thought about that question for the rest of rest of the day.  I realized I was wrong.

When we were dating, he gave me roses.  Now he gives me rose bushes.

Make of that what you will.  




Edited to add:  Ahhhh, the irony. 
Here Lies Spooky's Marriage
Oct. 31, 1999 - Dec. 31, 2015

Just a quickie...

Do you remember Angela, the Taco Lady from my last post?  The one who stabbed her boyfriend because he couldn't produce the promised comestibles?  Or so she said, although it turned out to be more about him refusing to participate in a threesome with her and the neighbor lady, rather than a dearth of Mexican food.

Angela came to see me today.

Believe it or not, she is unemployed.  I began to question her about looking for work.  She receives disability for "mental issues", but can still work part time.  Paying for probation and paying off her bail bond, in addition to keeping a roof over her head, is going to take some doing.  She's going to need a part-time job.

When I presented her with that fact, her eyes widened with simulated horror.

"I can't!  I just can't do that!" she said, gasping for a panicky breath.  

"What's stopping you?"

"I have agoraphobia!  I can't be around people - I don't do crowds!"

As God is my copilot, so to speak, I did not say the first thing that popped into my head:  'Since when is three NOT a crowd?!'

Menu Boards Make Me Blush

I just realized why Randy refused to cook tacos for dinner tonight.

Last week I spent most of my time either in court or driving to counties where we were having court.  Court hearings are, as you've no doubt noticed, my favorite part of the job.  Monday morning was completely consumed with hearings and waiting for hearings.  I got several new probationers out of the deal and one of the newbies was Angela.

Angela is not from around here.  She and her son came to Texas from the Pacific Northwest at the behest of her boyfriend several years ago.  They assimilated quickly and the son is currently a long-term guest of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice due to his propensity for unauthorized house sitting.

Despite promising beginnings, things didn't work out for Angela and her paramour.  They have been "on and off" for the last couple of years.  It's a shame really.  They made a handsome couple - she with her neck tattoo and he with his uncanny resemblance to an ugly Danny Trejo. Love did not conquer much, and Angela was in court on Monday to plead guilty to aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.  She got 10 years probation for knifing UDT.

Angela came to my office after lunch to begin the probation process. After gathering some data and explaining the rules and regulations, I asked her how it came to be that she stabbed Ugly Danny Trejo.

According to Angela, UDT called her on the afternoon in question and requested that she come over so they could talk.  He had amends to make and wanted to see her.  And he was making tacos.

Angela, who admits she'd been drinking, accepted his offer and went over to his house.

At this point, Angela paused in her narrative.   Her gaze faltered and she looked down, fingering the paperwork in her lap.

"Well?" I asked.  "What happened?  Why did you stab him?"

Angela's eyes hardened as she looked up from beneath bushy brows and answered, her voice grave.

"He didn't have any tacos."

 The End.

Well, it should be the end.   But it's not.

I managed to contain my laughter at Angela's highly serious comment and finished the interview.  She left with a fairly complete understanding of the terms and conditions of her release.  It was a busy afternoon, with several such interviews and when they were finished, I leaned back in my chair to relax for a moment.  I picked up the District Attorney's file on Angela's case which sat atop a precarious pile on the corner of my desk.

The DA is good enough to give me her files when we finish a hearing so I can go through it and copy anything that might be helpful to my supervision.  I knew there was something interesting in this file from the wicked smile that turned up a corner of her mouth as she slid the it across the counsel table to me at the end of the plea.  She never said a word.

Barely glancing at the letters back and forth between DA and defense attorney, as well as the bills from the hospital detailing the amount of restitution due for medical care, I kept turning pages until I found what I was looking for - the offense report.

I skimmed the officer's narrative and was looking for witness statements when I found it.  Fourteen pages of full color photographs of Angela's cell phone screen showing a long progression of text messages.

It turns out, that shortly after her arrival at Ugly Danny Trejo's house, Angela began texting the next door neighbor.  The gist of the texts were as follows:

Angela: Hey, you wanna come over and have a threesome?

Neighbor Lady: With who?  You and your ex?

A: Yeah.

N:  I don't know.  Your ex-husband?  That's kind of weird.

A:  Come on over!

N:  I've never done a threesome before.

A:

N:  Well, only with two guys.  Not with another woman.

A: Come on - you know you want to!

N: Do you have dope?

A: No dope. (That was the most surprising bit of the entire exchange.)

N: I'm nervous.  Do you have alcohol?

A: Yeah - we've got lots of alcohol.

N:  I don't know.  Still nervous.  Will you hold my hand?

A: 

N:

A:

N:  Hello?

A:  He's really still, but I think he's still breathing. 

N:  What?!  What are you talking about?

A:  There's a lot of blood.  And he's really still...

N:  What is going on?!  What have you done?!

A:

N: Angela?  What is going on?!

A: 

N:  Where are you?

N: Angela...?

N:  Should I still come over?


I sat up straight, dropping my feet from the edge of the desk and flipped furiously back to the witness statements.  Turns out, UDT was not only not interested in menage a trois, but he wasn't interested in any kind of sex with Angela, at all.  He just wanted to thank her for 'being there' for him during a recent emotional upheaval and he'd hoped they could bury the hatchet.

Angela seemed to be all for the hatchet burying part.  She got pissy and stabbed him in the gut and the hand.



I've told this story a couple of times this week.  The clean version, which ends with "He didn't make any tacos", is chuckle worthy.  The 'trois' version illicits a different level of response.  Men and women definitely react to it differently.  The women laugh out loud.  The men laugh but seem to be weighing their options in case they are confronted by a similar situation.  I reacted with the snarky, which proved to be a mistake when I got blindsided by unexpected snark from another quarter.  I'll probably never be able to look at the beer store menu board again without blushing.

And all of that is why Randy wouldn't cook tacos for dinner tonight - dinner with Katie's boyfriend who was meeting us for the first time.

Hamilton Burger Would Not Approve

I like to wait.

Sometimes.

I like to wait when I am waiting for court to start.  Only then. 

Today, the Judge, DA, court reporter, bailiff, an interpreter and I cooled our heels for an hour while an over-zealous attorney made sure his client understood not only the plea bargain but the underlying statutes governing the decision, the constitutional supports behind it, the intentions of the original framers of same and the general dyspepsia of the whole Magna Carta assemblage.

The clerk from the tax assessor's office who was going to be acting as the defendant's in-court interpreter (the family functioned in this roll while the defendant met with his attorney) had never been in court before.  She sat silently in a chair at the front of the bar, more apprehensive than any of the defendants.  After about half an hour of free-gratis entertainment courtesy of the judicial floor show, the DA balanced her chair on it's back legs, hooked her high heels on the bottom of the counsel table and grinned at the clerk from over her shoulder.  She apologized for the delay and told the woman, "We really do work around here.  There's just nothing we can do until the defense attorney gets ready."

The clerk looked a little shell-shocked, but tried to smile and remained silent as we returned to a spirited discussion of the cultural significance of Dazed and Confused and Matthew McConnaughey's Oscar acceptance speech.

At long last, Mr. Holland and his Opus entered the courtroom prepared to face the seat of Justice.  We proceeded rather painfully slow through that hearing, as the attorney was apparently being paid by the word.  Despite the verbosity, the Judge remained sympathetic to the plight of the illegal alien he was about to send careening intro the open and welcoming arms of the Texas prison system.

He let the man testify, via the highly nervous translator, to all manner of merriment.  The defendant told the Court he was having health issues, then said something that caused the interpreter to do a double take.  The attorney caught the man's meaning and said dubiously, "He wants to show you his problem."

I knew this had to be good and I whirled in my chair to face the defendant full-on, not wanting to miss the show.  The DA, still balanced on the back two legs of her chair, rolled her eyes and stared up at the ceiling.  The Judge, comprehending what was about to happen, threw up his hands and said, "No!  Really!  I don't need to see!"

But, in the immortal words of Ray Stevens, it was too late.  He'd done been incensed.

The defendant whipped his shirt up over his head, revealing the most distended gut I've seen this side of a Sally Struthers commercial, complete with a deeply angry and inflamed colon surgery scar.

The Judge sent him to prison.  But not before promising to do what he could to expedite medical treatment for the defendant.  He obviously wasn't malingering.

That was just the first case.  The next case was a per-trial hearing for a defendant famous for bawling through all of his previous court appearances.  His attorney, Mr. Slightly-Sleazy addressed the court and explained that he and his client had talked on several occasions since the last hearing and the client no longer wished to fire the attorney. 

However, during their most recent talk, held in a witness room while the previous case was being heard, the defendant made his attorney privy to information which Mr. Slightly-Sleazy was going to be forced to investigate, requiring the attorney to request more time before the case was set for trial.

This information, most notably Code 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9 - at this point all heads snapped up and questioning eyes turned towards the attorney - if verified, would significantly change the direction of their defense.  If Code 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9 was not verified the attorney would be making some "other motions".

At this point I sat on the edge of my seat, thoroughly flummoxed, wondering what the hell was going on.

Simultaneously, the Judge leaned on his elbow, forehead  propped on his palm, and peered at the attorney around the side of his hand, one Vulcan-esque eyebrow disappearing into his hairline.  "Counselor, you have completely lost the Court.  What is Code 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9?"

"Well, it's something I'm going to have to investigate, Your Honor.  I need to talk to some phone comapnies to see if it's even possible.  And, depending on what I find out, I may have to file some 'other' motions."

The Judge stared at the attorney for a moment longer, no less confused than before.  At length he sighed, straightened in his chair and granted the continuance.    Once the attorney and the client left the courtroom, we looked at one another, looking for some sign that someone, anyone, knew what had just happened.

"What the hell is Code 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9?!" the Judge demanded.

The red-headed deputy with the Borg/Bluetooth device permanently attached to his earlobe, who was acting as bailiff for the day, got up from his post by the door and proceeded to explain.

"It's supposedly a code that, when punched into a cell phone, will put you in touch with the FBI agent who evidently gave the defendant permission to drive down the highway at over 100 miles an hour, waiving papers out the window while fleeing from police, as well as authorizing the use of all the meth the guy smoked, as a part of their 'ongoing investigation'."

"Ohhhhh," everyone said.  The Judge nodded jurisprudently.  "Well.  I guess now we know what the 'other' motion is going to be," he said.  "I'll go ahead and schedule this case for a competency hearing."

As the Judge reached for his calendar, the attorney and defendant for the third case came in and settled at the defense table.  The defendant made a good-natured show of greeting the players in his own personal courtroom drama.  He was the absolute epitome of the George Martin character from the first Police Academy movie.

There was a brief wait while paperwork was procured.  During the lull, the DA teased the young attorney about not wanting to take his case to trial. 

"I want to go to trial here," Mr. GQ said.  "But you never give me any cases that I could win!"

"Do you know why that is?" the DA asked with mock gravity, lowering her chair to all fours.  "It's because Barber County Grand Juries take their job seriously!"

The defendant looked up from contemplation of his shackled hands and feet and said in a plaintive voice "They sure do!"

It was one of those serendipitous moments of perfect timing and the courtroom erupted into laughter.  Once the congregation regained some semblance of decorum, the Judge called the case and proceeded with the hearing.  He followed the usual formula of questioning the defendant about his plea and whether or not it was free, voluntary and made for the sole reason that the defendant was guilty and for no other reason.  The DA and I sat quietly at our table, doodling on legal pads and listening to the soft schik, schik, schik of the court reporter's keys as she typed out the spoken words.  After questioning the defendant, the Court spoke to the attorney and began a standard litany, starting with "Do you have any reason to believe the defendant is not competent to stand trial?"

"No, Your Honor, I believe the defendant is competent."

Before the Court could ask the next question, the defendant snickered audibly and stage whispered "Show's what you know!"  His timing and delivery was scary good and the courtroom again dissolved into laughter.

Later in the hearing the defense attorney requested that the judge waive certain surcharges for the defendant, given his low income.  The Judge contemplated the defendant for a moment or two before turning to the court reporter. 

"We're going off the record."

She nodded and removed her hands from the keys.

The Judge leaned over the bench and looked down at the shackled defendant.  "I've never granted a request for waiving surcharges," he said.  "But I've also never had a defendant who made me laugh out loud during a hearing.  So, I'm going to grant your request." 

The defendant replied with a huge grin and the Judge directed the reporter to begin the record again.  He formally waived the surcharges and adjourned the hearing.  We were done for the day.

If we had court more often, I'd be thinner.  That kind of laughing is really good for your abs. 

And now I'm hungry...

This week's prompt:  Spectacular

Other than the kid's pitching prowess in a couple of softball games, I haven't had a lot of contact with the spectacular this week.  It hasn't been bad, though.  Sometimes good enough is just that.  

I had some good lunches this week.  The first was with my former co-workers in Fake Cow County.  We attended a joint training with Catherine the Cocaine Whore, whom we've all know of yore. Even though she thinks we're all hopelessly country, Catherine is good at her job and she's also got a corporate expense account, which meant lunch was on her.  It was good to see everyone and learn what has changed and what has not.  It felt like slipping into an old pair of tennis shoes. 

The second lunch involved me standing in line at Subway with my current co-workers.  Co-workers who forgot to tell me they were ditching our normal Wednesday lunch plans in favor of industrial sandwiches.  The only way I discovered this was that I, too, ditched the usual plan and showed up at the sandwich shop only to find them there ahead of me.  While we waited on our flatbreads and cold cuts, they introduced me to two very cute gray-haired ladies, obviously long-time lunch buddies who never needed to finish a sentence to be completely understood by each other. 

I was introduced by name and as the "probation chief".  Both ladies expressed their pleasure at making my acquaintance and then one asked "Where are your crutches?  I heard you were on crutches."

Yep.  I'd never seen either of these two before in my life.  This is life in a small town.  It's the same everywhere, right?  (No more crutches, just another week or so with a knee brace.)


The third lunch was a going-away potluck for the County Treasurer's assistant.  Just like in seventh grade, we all gravitated into our usual groups and cliques for the meal.  I snagged at seat at the most isolated table and bullied the sweet young thang who is Sushi's replacement into joining me.  She's nice and inexperienced and no match for obnoxious older women.  She came quietly.  I told her I was declaring this the cool kids table, and sure enough, within a few minutes we were joined by the Judge, the DA's assistant and the County Attorney's assistant, all of whom are equally obnoxious and even older than I, although they're not all women.  

This was my first chance to spend any time with young Barbie.  I like her.  She seems to be a genuinely good person.  She's beautiful and apparently fairly intelligent.  And, for the time being, shy. 

I like shy.  Shy is a good thing in my book.  I'm hoping it means she's got depth.  We didn't really get to know each other any better over lunch, mostly because everyone else is a pushy story-teller, and she isn't one to butt in, but this was a good start and I hope I can pull bits and pieces of her personality out into the open over the next few months. 

As for the pushy-story tellers, they made me laugh.  Out loud.  They reminded me of an article I read this week about advice to Japanese travelers who are visiting the U.S. for the first time.  The Asian tourist was warned that American women laugh loud and long and in your face.  American women do not hide their wide smiles behind a demure hand or turn away so that no one is made uncomfortable by their quiet giggles. American men are guilty of the same sort of behavior, not caring who sees or hears their guffaws. 

The Judge told us about the first week of his marriage which involved him being totally enthralled with the wonders of his inaugural experience with satellite television, involving a NASA-esque dish covering an entire corner of the back yard and a remote control of Tolstoy complexities.  All this while his wife was calling for help from the suds-engulfed bathroom where the whirlpool tub was completely out of control.  She kept shouting for "Bill!  Bill!", but all he heard was Lucy Ricardo screeching for "Ricky! Ricky!". 

Then there was the story of the flaming toilet paper roll.  Followed by a comparison of septic system experiences, which we all contributed to, having lived in the country at one time or another.  This went on and on and on.

There was a discussion of the correct septic system toilet paper choice protocol.  And various toilet paper chaff factors.  And the number of squares that is appropriate for each personal experience.  And then the discussion of the tragedy of the courthouse toilet paper that doesn't even have squares, making accurate measurement an exercise in tissuey futility. 

Finally I tossed the remnants of my dinner roll into a puddle of tomato sauce and looked around the table.  "Good Lord, people!  Y'all have put WAY more thought into toilet paper than I have EVER considered possible."

Barbie laughed.  I think she's got potential. 

Look at those Gun(n)s!

Everyone needs a winter break, so last week I took a few days off to visit Janet at Camp Runamok in Athens. (Texas.) Normally this means traipsing all over the East Texas countryside in search of interesting dead people and other fun things.  Last year we found Mrs. Nugent.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature is conspiring against us all.  Tuesday morning, as I was leaving the gym, I discovered that the dangers of black ice extend to pedestrians, not just motorists.  Now I'm on crutches.

I've never used crutches before in my entire life.  What an upper body workout!  Damn!  My traipsing is seriously curtailed, but I made the trip anyway, only to discover that East Texas is about as cold and snowy as West Texas.  Thoroughly unfair, but still fun. 

Janet and I spent an afternoon in an artisan shop and an art gallery in the official "Coolest Small Town in Texas".  And yes, I will be going back for the live music and food in the warmer months.  The next afternoon we took a trip to Navarro College in Corsicana, where we perused some of their  thousands of bits of Civil War correspondence and artifacts and hundreds of impressive Western paintings. 

Even if Janet and I are doing nothing more than sitting around comparing Facebook postings or bidding Jay Leno adieu and evaluating Jimmy Fallon's chances, (good, we say) we still have a lot of fun. 

This was the first - and hopefully only - trip to Athens that passed without me taking a single photo.  Cripping around on crutches saps one's creative energy and makes photography a chore.  It also makes you acutely aware of how minimal and pathetic your upper body strength is.  I am pretty sure I'm going to be all buff and six-packy by the time I'm done with these sticks. My arms are gonna be ripped!  (Out of the sockets, possibly.)

I slipped, I fell, I crutched, but I had fun!

As I was making the drive east on Wednesday, I took a break from my audiobook to listen to some NPR.  Fresh Air was on and I caught the very beginning of an interview with Tim Gunn.  I've never watched any of his television shows, but his various commercials and such make me think he's a dapper, genuinely nice man with a beautiful voice.  Within moments the interview had my full attention.  Tim Gunn is a seriously amazing person.  I was not surprised that he is as classy a man as I'd assumed, but I was surprised to learn that Gunn's father is responsible for making me the person I am today. 

(Gunn's mother was the first librarian for the CIA.  That has nothing to do with anything, but isn't that cool?) 

Tim's father worked for the FBI.   He worked his way up through the agency, eventually becoming J. Edgar Hoover's right hand man.  He was Hoover's ghost-writer; writing his memos, his speeches...and his books.  Anyone know where this is going? 

He wrote Hoover's books.  Tim Gunn's father must have written the book.  The book that I checked out, over and over again, from the church library in that small, dirty, desolate town where I spent several of my formative years. 

The book that convinced me I could and should grow up to be a G-man, which became my life's goal.  Except for the 'man' bit.  I read that book numerous times, and I held that dream fast until I was about halfway through college, when I realized I would find a better fit in a different arm of law enforcement.  But that one book - a silly, propaganda-heavy book about how the FBI needed smart, ethical young men - evidently written by Tim Gunn's father, set the direction for my entire life.

And still does. 

And it's fun. 

You are getting veerrrry sleeepyyy...

This week's prompt is selfie.  Here are some things that you would maybe want to know:

1.  I have not been smoking pot.  I'd just come back from getting my hair permed when I took this photo.  Some of the chemicals got in my eyes.  Fer reals.

2.  My hair naturally looks like Jan Brady's.  Straight as a board.  Except for the grey stuff.  Those hairs are kinky and curly.

3 Do the reading glasses make me look smarter?  I think they aren't that big in real life.  I am hoping that is just a function of the weirdness that is selfie-angle.

4.  I really am wearing a shirt under that jacket.

5. At present I am about to starve.  We have no breakfast food in the house.  (That is perhaps a bit of an over-statement, but nothing I want to eat.  And no milk.  Or biscuits.)  I am torn between an all-consuming desire for breakfast burritos and a quart of good hot sauce to start the reaming out process on my tortured sinuses and the quiet, less demanding desire to let Jackson sleep because he felt really, really horrible last night and probably did not sleep much until the wee hours of the morning.  It's 9:30.  Perhaps I can nurture the milk of human kindness for another half hour.  Maybe.

6.  I am taking a bit of a vacation next week.  I have so much on my plate at work right now that I find myself stressing about taking the time off.  This is perhaps a sure sign that I need to get the hell out of Dodge for a bit.

7.  Work is still very enjoyable, all things considered.  I was reminded of this a couple of days ago.  We were "out in the District", and had a full morning's worth of hearings in the Court Barn.  Once everything was done, we shuffled our papers and packed away our files as the Judge stood and unzipped his robe. He tossed the robe in the general direction of the hat rack and said "I'll see y'all at the beer store." 

 And in a very few minutes we gathered around a plastic-covered table, devouring plates of delectable beer store bbq, and laughing a lot.

8.   You know, I thought I'd have all kinds of things to say in this post.  Selfie?  Who doesn't love talking about themselves?  Normally not me, but I can't think of a single interesting thing to tell you.  Perhaps it's the lack of food.  Yeah, that's probably it.  I'm outta here in favor of foraging.  Have a good week!

I Think I'll Call the Playlist "Penance".

You want to know something that's unfortunate?  My affinity for the movies of Quentin Tarrantino and Robert Rodriquez. You want to know what is especially bad about that?  The fact that I love the soundtracks of those same movies and have included them in the content of my iPod's music library. 

Also unfortunate is the level of hatred that I harbor as a simmering ember in the darkest depths of my feeble heart, where it waits to be blown into white-hot heat the moment I enter the technological travesty that is iTunes.  As a result I have never bothered to make a work-friendly playlist.  Everything is in just one big shuffle-puddle of a mess. 

You know where this is going.  Both of those directors like to include snippets of dialogue on their soundtracks, as well as some occasionally questionable music choices. 

Additionally unfortunate is my penchant for playing loud music when I am working hard at something requiring grown-up levels of functionality.  The raucous melodies curb my distractions and narrow my focus. 

Imagine my chagrin as I sat at my desk, midway through a morning of reading, planning and writing standard operating procedures for a grant-funded substance abuse program when the music paused and the voice of Juliette Lewis, amplified in spectacular Bose wave fashion, filled my corner of the courthouse with plaintive inquiry.  

            "Ricky?  Would you eat my pussy for me?  Please?"

Big Brotherly Interweb Stalker Stuff

Who is it that reads my blog, fairly consistently, from Hereford, Texas?  Do I know you?  Should we be friends?  Speak up!  Speak up!  Do I already know you and just don't realize you are in Hereford?

Where was I going with this?

Earlier this week I read an article on the benefits of writing by hand; how handwriting stimulates different parts of your brain than writing on a keyboard does.  My writing guru, Lois, was the first one to tell me about this several years ago.  So, guess what I'm doing now?  Got my smooth-writing gel pen and my handy-dandy Moleskine and guess what?

I gots nuthin'. 

I am in one of those moods where I am desperate to create - write, draw, paint - and I am totally unable to take the first step.  Or maybe this is the first step and it's the second one that is so bloody difficult.  I just can't get a grasp on any sort of inspiration.

Grief has smacked me pretty hard this week and perhaps that's what's blocking the creativity.  I'm embarrassed to tell you how my momentary joy at discovering a channel running old Night Court reruns morphed into something abject when I realized it was the episode where Judge Harry is interviewing prospective bailiffs because Selma had died unexpectedly.  

I've always known that my life basically is Night Court, pretty much every single day.  This just sort of confirms that, I suppose.  Although, Sushi would be furious to know I compared her to Selma the Bailiff.

Speaking of Sushi, she (and several others) have taught me a lot about the value of thank you notes and written praise for expressions of good character, rather than just for good deeds.  Recently I've tried to doing this more.  I have been working, off and on, on a draft of a letter to the head of the state agency that oversees our funding.  They sent auditors last week to help clean-up some long-standing financial errors. (Disclaimer:  Errors from before my tenure. Heh.) The auditors were helpful, polite and competent - not at all like the whores of the anti-Christ that I'd always been lead to believe they were. 

Then I got an email from one of them, which basically accused us of withholding documentation.  (I had the secretary mail the bazillion and a half pages of additional documentation that she wanted rather than sending and resending it via an unreliable fax line.)

Grr.

This particular auditor is very, very suited to her job.  And she comes from a different cultural background than I - one I know almost nothing about.  And I, accidentally, in a round about way, totally unintentionally, told her she had big feet the first day I met her.  Given all of that, perhaps I misinterpreted her seemingly terse request.

I still need to do the letter, right?  And still thank her for her fabulous attention to detail, right?  It's the right thing to do, yes?  Even though she pissed me off and I'd like to stomp those over-sized toes? 

So maybe that's my creative endeavor for the week - to finish that bit of writing and put it in the mail.  I still feel like I gots nuthin' though.

It turns out I unknowingly wrote this on the one-month anniversary of Sushi's death.  No wonder the grief has been particularly palpable.  How does our subconscious keep track of this stuff?  

Things, Things, Everywhere Things.

Some things from this week: 

Someone - someone of the feline persuasion - threw up all over the cat bed.  This particular bed is the subject of an on-going territorial dispute.  Much like the dispute between Texas and New Mexico.  Did you know we have never settled on a border between us?  If I remember correctly there is a 27 mile long stretch of land, only a mile or two wide, running down the west side of the Panhandle that is claimed by both states.  

Tomorrow the kid is signing a letter of intent to play college softball.  She is going to play for Vernon Junior College.  I was not at all thrilled about her going to junior college - a prejudice based on experience with local ‘thug schools’.  However, this one seems to be a real college with real students and they are going to pay real money to cover her education there.  I am SO easily bought.  Gimme a t-shirt.

I bought car tags today.  My office is seven - seven! - steps from the tax assessor’s office where they sell the tags.  This is the second car in as many months that I’ve paid a penalty on for being extra damn late buying the tags.  

I cannot get warm.  What the hell is up with that?  Prolly hormones or some fake-ass shit like that.  Hormones cause profanity, too.  Prolly.  Shit.

We drank the Netflix Kool-aid again this week.  We used to have it back when all you could do was get the mail service.  Unwatched DVDs languished on top of the TV for months at a time.  We finally cancelled.  Now - downloads!  Woah!  Who knew how much I would like this!!  For a while there, I was keeping track of how many hours of BBC mysteries I have streamed this week.  I stopped because it was just getting embarrassing.  Stopped keeping track, that is.  I’m still sucking down the British detective shows pretty much every waking moment.  And several not-really-awake moments as well.  

Earlier today I was perusing Pinterest, as one is wont to do, and while scrolling through Edward Hopper paintings, I realized I have taken several photos that are reminiscent of his work.  It’s kind of like the article Diane posted about mediocre artists, but in reverse.  (Here’s a link to the article:  http://dappledthings.org/2895/why-we-need-mediocre-artists/#comment-4134)

The kid asked her father if we could all watch something on TV tonight.  As a - gasp! - family.  He said “Ohhhh-kay…?”  What does she want to watch?  American Horror Story.  At first I was so proud.  But then I realized she probably just doesn’t want to watch it alone, on her own, in vulnerable solitude.  I wasn’t nearly as proud.  Then I realized we are allowing the child to watch American Horror Story.  We are bad, bad parents.  Or, maybe not…

Today someone described me as a “A real redhead!  And she uses that redheaded personality to keep those crooks in line!”  Made my day.  Especially since it was my boss that said it.  

Tomorrow the auditors will be done at my office.  Surprisingly, I really have kind of enjoyed them.  I am not even remotely suited to that sort of work, but I can certainly admire those who’ve got the ability to do it.  Really - it’s like alchemy or something.  And that one woman who is working right outside my office?  She is burning UP some adding machine keys.  It’s amazing.  

How many things is that?  Enough?  Plenty?  Too many?  My li’l band o’ writer buddies is working on a one-word weekly prompt.  Thing was this week’s word.  Sometimes I’m good with the prompts.  Sometimes not.  And sometimes I just make lists. 

It's like Matlock, Sans Seersucker

I made my monthly pilgrimage to the out-lyingest of the out-lying counties this week.  This time the district court was in session there, finishing up a civil trial.   I had just finished my work when Sushi, the court coordinator, knocked on my door.  My office is just behind the employee restroom, so I get lots of 'foot traffic'.  She asked if I wanted to go upstairs to the courtroom to watch the closing arguments.

"It will be the only interesting part of the trial."

She was right; it was interesting.

I slid into a pew somewhere near the middle of the cavernous, mostly empty, space.  The courtroom was a product of an earlier time when these sorts of proceedings provided the best show in town.  Crowds were the rule. Nowadays, the spectator pool usually just consists of the interested parties and maybe a court house employee or two with time on their hands.  The tip-tapping of Sushi's heels echoed slightly off the walls of the hollow room as she delivered her paperwork to the Judge then returned to the cheap seats and sat down next to me.  The arguments began.

One side represented an employer and their insurance company and the other represented the wheelchair-bound widow of a faithful employee.

I listened to the widow's lawyer tell the jury the story of this hard-working man who wasn't feeling well one morning, although he went to work anyway.  His co-workers said he seemed sort of depressed, but nothing really out of the ordinary.  At the noon hour he returned home and ate lunch.  After a brief respite, he told his wife he loved her, kissed her goodbye and returned to his post.

Some time after that, while alone on the job site, he fell into a pit of water and drowned.

At the autopsy, hours after his death, they weighed his body both clothed and unclothed.  When wearing his muck-filled garments his body weighed 47 pounds more, thanks to the wet, muddy fabric.

I was vaguely horrified.  This poor man, obviously well-liked by his co-workers and family, was dead.  Gone.  Fine one moment, drowned the next.  A pit full of muddy water must be a terrible way to go.  I could imagine the feel of the cold, dark water invading my lungs as I fought for footing; sinking deeper and deeper into a bottomless abyss.

As the attorney continued to wax lengthy about the details of the dead man's last day, I mused about how much money the jury might award to the widow and how little it would do to replace what she lost. Although it mightn't provide consolation, the cash would certainly make life a little easier for her.

In the midst of my musing, my phone started to vibrate.  I retrieved it from my pocket, surprised to see the words "text message from Sushi" on the screen.  Evidently she is an accomplished mentalist and mind reader.  She wrote:

      6 foot man.
      6 foot pit.
      4 feet of water.

Well, hell.

Even I can do that math.  Why didn't the guy just stand up?

At that point, the employer's attorney did stand up.  He addressed the jury.  "The only question we are here to decide today is 'was the plaintiff intoxicated or not at the time of the accident?'"  Turns out the man was a well known in the community as a drug user. He'd been arrested several times and had trouble keeping long-term employment. The autopsy found cocaine in his system, but couldn't pin-point with certainty when he'd last used.  The co-workers who testified had varied on whether or not the employee was "depressed" or just coming down from being high on the day of his death.

The jury didn't give the widow any money.  She didn't seem surprised.

We stuck around a bit to watch the wrap up, then made our way across the street to the diner for lunch.  Unfortunately, despite our blue-cheese-fueled speculation, Sushi's final question remained unanswered:  "Forty-seven pounds - what the hell was that guy wearing??!"

Friday Cemetery Blogging on a Monday

Happy Memorial Day

(or Amateur Day, as I like to call it.)

Friday Cemetery Blogging

...the white wagons creeping slowly along...

[Conversation at Subway, Earlier This Week]

Dude:  You are rocking the trench coat!  You don't see those much any more.

Me:  Thanks!  I love trench coats.

Dude:  I'd love to wear one but, you know, there's that whole 'black guy in a trench coat' thing.

Me:  Yeah, I know what you mean.  'Run away! Run away!'

Dude:  (laughing)  Exactly.

Me:  You should wear one anyway.  Maybe just not a black one.

Dude:  Good advice!

[Conversation From Yesterday]

Last night I was wondering around the back yard, watching Jackson work...

Me:  Hey - did you see where I put the huge metal bat?

He:  Yep.

Me:  So, you know it's just sitting up there.  I didn't wire it in.

He: mm-kay.

Me:  And if the wind blows it out of the tree, it's going to totally decapitate anyone in proximity.  You know that right?  You cool with that?

He:  Yep.  That's what makes it exciting.

Me:  See?  That's why I like you.

Hellfire and Brimestone - But That's Just During Daylight Hours

So.

Are you busy in July?

I'm thinking about hosting a blogger camp-out this summer.  Maybe mid-July?

Spooky's Sleep-Away Camp for the Exceptionally Average.  Maybe there will be t-shirts.  Or something.  There won't be planned activities.  Except maybe for a trip to the local eatery on Slap-Yo-Grandma Fried Chicken Night.  Otherwise, you'll probably have to make your own food.  There won't be wi-fi or really even any cell phone service.  And it'll be hot.  Damn hot.

But it's a dry heat.

From the looks of the forecast map, we'll still be smack dab in the midst of flesh-crackling drought so chances are there will even be a burn ban which means no campfires.

So.

Who's in?

(I wonder if I still have that set of lawn darts...?)

The Midnight Rabbit

Did you ever have a real live honest-to-God hallucination?

I did once.

It happened as I was walking around the track one night.  The high school track is always open to the less than adventuresome perambulator, but the lighting is generally non-existent.  There are two security lights, one at each end, but both are about to burn out, so they only wink on and off, mostly off.

As I rounded a curve and entered the far side straightaway, I saw a black house cat come tearing out of the darkness and down the tarmac, headed straight for me.  It ran full tilt then suddenly launched itself at me.  As it flew for my throat it changed in mid-air into a snarling beast, baring a maw of razor-sharp teeth dripping hot slime.

Then it disappeared.

The whole incident lasted less than a second, but it was really sort of amazing.  The right side of my brain screamed for me to make peace with the creator because I was so going to die.  At the same time, the left side of my brain was completely cognizant of the fact that this was a hallucination - a complete fabrication of my very own mind.

I can't think of another time when two sides of my head have been working completely independently of each other like that.  Now I understand the allure of a good LSD trip.

A couple of months went by before I mentioned this to anyone.  It's not the sort of thing you can tell someone without them suspecting that you've lost at least a wee bit of your ever-lovin' mind.  I wracked my brain, trying to think of a reason why I'd suddenly start seeing things and wondering if it would happen again.  I finally did some research and found out that none of the medications I was taking caused hallucination.  However, if you took a combo of two medicines that I was briefly on, hallucination was a reported side effect.

This disappointingly plebeian discovery admittedly granted a bit of relief.  It's generally good to learn that you are not a bit nuttier than you originally thought.

I remain hopeful, however, that I can still see things that aren't really there.  I've had a little plaque in my office for years that says "Only those who can see the invisible can do the impossible."  I want to see invisible  things.

So, when I first saw the Midnight Rabbit, I thought maybe he wasn't real.

Two things you should know:  First, when it's dark outside my house, then it's dark inside my house.   Secondly,  I never close the curtains.

A few weeks ago I couldn't sleep.  I'd like you to think it was because my mind was churning with the possibilities for a final denouement to some epic murder  mystery I was writing or perhaps I'd been dreaming of the exact chemical compound that would cure cancer, only to have the details stripped from my mind by dawning consciousness.  Unfortunately, I couldn't sleep because my hip hurt.  Like some old woman.  So I got up to take some Advil.

The sliding glass door in the den gives one a full view of the back yard.  As I walked past, the gawd-awful orange security light that the electric company repaired last month more or less illuminated the yard and alley.  I noticed a big rock sitting exactly in the middle of the open space.  I wondered - fleetingly - how it got there.

I took my drugs and trudged back towards the bedroom.  I glanced out again.  It wasn't a rock!  It was a rabbit.

That hip gave me a lot of problems for a week or so.  Each time I walked past the door, deep in the night, I could see the rabbit sitting in the same spot.  Each time he ignored me and pretended to be a rock so I wouldn't be able to see him.

He was just an over-sized cotton tail, but he really started to creep me out because every night he sat in the same exact same spot, all through the wee hours.  If he was a raven, I'd be worrying about the future of my immortal soul.  If he was a wolf, I would've followed him into the great adventure beyond.  If he was a unicorn, I'd lay off the Fruity Pebbles, for good.  But a rabbit?  What the hell does a rabbit portend?  Bounciness?

It's like having a pair of fuzzy slippers for a patronus.  Why is this rabbit appearing every night?  And if he's got some sort of larger meaning for my life, why can't he at least be a bad-ass jack rabbit?

I saw him again a couple of days ago.  For the last time it seems.  I was walking around the track in the dark again.  This time he was sitting in the grass on the inside curve.  Still perfectly still.  I watched him as I rounded the corner.  When I made the turn and was facing away from him, he bolted.  I kept turning and was walking backwards down the straightaway to watch him.  He caught me staring and stopped in mid-mad-dash on the fourth lane of the track.  I stopped as well.

We both waited - silent, wary, stationary.

Steadfast, torpid, somewhat petrified.




Then nothing happened.




The End.

It's a Small, Spooky World

I have a thing for disaster.  I'm a catastrophile.

Not just any old tragedy will do.  Instead, I'm all agog about cataclysm on a truly epic scale - hurricanes and earthquakes and such. Sappy 'how I survived' movies on the Hallmark Channel and that sort of ilk are not my thing, but I love to learn about the actual history of big bad stuff and how people and cultures endured and rebuilt.

The first time I became aware of my inclination towards mishap, misfortune and misadventure was on my very first visit to Galveston.  The 1900 hurricane and resulting super-human recovery effort absolutely fascinated me.  Immediately upon returning home, I went to the library and read everything I could about it.  (The notes from the weather service employee the night the storm hit are really cool.)

This past weekend I got to indulge the allure of the macabre once again while hanging out with Janet, my best friend from college.  (Now you have totally the wrong picture in your head and you'd never, ever be able to pick us out in a crowd.)  Curiosity in tow, we took a mini road trip to New London, Texas.

Anyone know why?  Know what happened there?

New London was the richest school district in America in 1937 due to a massive influx of oil company tax money.  They built an immense stone and steel Elizabethan school building.  The county was populated by depression-era immigrants from all over the US, coming in search of oil field work. They lived in company camps and sent their children to the local school.

At that time, natural gas was odorless, colorless and free for the taking.  The rotten-egg smell is an additive, which wasn't used until later, to make leaks easier to detect.  Oil companies gave the gas away for free to anyone that would run a pipe for it.  The school and most every other building in town was heated with gas radiators.

You can see where this is going, right?  March 18, 1937 was the occasion of the largest school disaster in the history of the United States.  Between 400 and 600 people died, wiping out an entire generation of children.  To this day they don't have an accurate count of the dead because parents were the ones wrenching the bodies out of the rubble.  When they found their children, they often put the bodies in the back of the family truck and took them, along with the rest of the family, back home - wherever that was - for burial.  Many never returned to East Texas.  When school eventually reconvened, it was unknown how many of the missing were siblings of the dead who'd left the area with their family.

Janet and I spent a couple of hours on a private tour of the museum.  Judy, a spit-fire volunteer, (whose picture on the website does not begin to do her justice) told us the story.  (Janet calls her my new BFF, which is probably true.  She'd be a hoot to hang out with.)

What really hooked me in this story is the fact that the parents and townspeople completed the super-human task of clearing away 4 millions tons of debris, much of it by hand and peach basket, and processed 500 or so bits and pieces of dead children in only a few days.  Then, they closed the book.

On the first anniversary of the explosion, a memorial service was planned.  It was cancelled because the grief was still too fresh - the families weren't ready for to reopen the wounds.  They closed the book more tightly.

It stayed closed for 40 years.

I could go on and on about this.  In the 1970's, when the long-delayed memorial service was finally held, the survivors began to tell their stories.  The stories - the coincidences that saved lives and took them - will suck you in.  That's what I love about these events.  The real stories of how people cope just fascinated the hell out of me.  Sometimes they react just like they would in the Lifetime movie of the week.  Sometimes they don't.

Real people aren't movie characters, but they are always amazing.

Did I mention that you should read the website?  You should.  Then pack your bags and go.  See with your own eyes and listen to real people tell you the stories.

And then eat lunch in the museum's "tea room".

Oh my god, was that ever a misnomer.  The "tea room" is a bad-ass soda fountain with a killer soup and sandwich menu.  The only paid employee is the cook.  Even the tips are donated back to running the museum.  The tea room's main customers are the kids from the rebuilt school who cross the street every day for lunch, and the elderly citizens who are there for the memories.  And there are a few folks like Janet and I who never pass up a good chunk of the macabre or a ham sandwich.  Seriously - eat there.  It was so good I thought long and hard about licking my bowl.  I'm salivating while writing this.

And that wasn't the most interesting part of my weekend.

Neither was going to "Storage Wars: Texas" star Victor Rjesnjansky's store in Tyler and buying an itty-bitty Wonder Woman.  (He gave me the autographed 8 x 10 for free.)

No, the really interesting part involved going to First Monday Trade Days in Canton.  Perhaps you've heard of it?  With the 28 miles of aisles?  I bought stuff - a big, metal, scowl-y vulture, a huge (big, big, big) metal bat, an alligator topiary frame and some other stuff.  Cool stuff, but we found the real prize when we went searching for lunch again.

Lunch was good to us on this trip.

While I stood in an interminable line at one of the food booths, Janet saved us a couple of chairs at a communal dining table.  She struck up a conversation with the guy sitting across from her.  His wife was in line and he was warming the seats.  Janet asked where they were from.

Antlers, Oklahoma.

When I returned with the comestibles, she introduced us.  Being a good southerner, I immediately began to think of people we might know in common.  We can't help it - it's all about who you know around here and we are taught from birth to find mutual acquaintances with strangers.

"My brother used to live in Antlers," was my opening gambit in the I-know-people-you-might-know game.  "He was the newspaper editor there for a couple of years."

We determined that although they didn't remember my brother, they were friends with the paper's publisher, my brother's boss, whom I'd met while visiting there.  Connection achieved!

Then I had to tell them about my all time favorite photo.  It was my very first Christmas card photo.

While visiting said same brother and newly acquired sister-in-law in the eastern Oklahoma mountain town of Antlers (Yes.  Mountains.  And gorgeous mountains they are, too.) my brother's scanner erupted with news of a fire.  We grabbed our cameras and headed to the scene - he to get pictures for the newspaper and me to just mess around.

The burning building turned out to be an old two-story Victorian mansion converted into an antique store and it was enraged with flames when we got there.  We stood a half block away and could still feel the heat.  As I watched, the roof of the lower floor fell in and the resulting flash illuminated something in the window.  I snapped a photo.  My all-time favorite photo as it turned out.

While I told this story, tears started to form in the woman's eyes.  I quit talking, wondering at the intensity of her reaction and thinking maybe she wouldn't appreciate that the Christmas card caption was "Keep the Home Fires Burning".

Turns out, she was the store's owner.

She and her husband sold real estate and the antique business was her hobby.  She told me about the fabulous treasures that were lost, including the beautiful porcelain stove that melted in the blaze.  She'd been there that afternoon to drop off a new load of inventory and then left to spend the rest of the day with family.   The call from the fire department came late that evening and she made it the eight miles into town in less than five minutes.  A neighbor had to physically restrain her from running inside the burning building to try to salvage those things she loved so dearly.

I worried that she would be appalled by my picture taking, but I needn't have.  She thought the idea was fabulous and by the time we finished lunch we'd exchanged addresses and a promise for me to send her a copy of the photo.

I took that photo sixteen years ago.  It was another of those amazing coincidences that make life so interesting.

"Coincidence is logical." - Johan Cruijff

"I am not Spock."  - Leonard Nimoy

To bad this week's verb wasn't "surreal".

After chomping my way through the lunch special at the Turn Around Cafe in Spur last week, I drove down a road not yet taken and found the abandoned prison.  (Here are a couple of articles about how the prison came to be abandoned.  The first one gets really interesting towards the end.  The second one explains some of the reasons why the first one got so interesting.)  I expected to drive up to a fence, a hundred or so yards from the facility and stare at it briefly before turning around to leave.

Not so.

This week when I went back, I packed my camera.

The privately run prison, which closed in late 2010, sits atop a vague knoll, not really a hill, about two miles south of town, hiding behind a field of mesquite.  The low-profile sign, simple even by prison standards, announced the presence of the facility in plain block letters.  The prison itself lies at the end of a half-mile paved driveway.  There are no fences.  No barriers. Nothing but the sign by the side of the road.

Nothing had changed from last week as I entered the main parking lot at the end of the driveway.  I debated whether or not to park in the empty warden's spot, as if I owned the freakin' place and had every right to be there.  Sneakiness trumped brashness and I parked along the far side of the lot, hoping the electric blue Dodge Avenger I was driving would blend in with, well, the sky and not be quite so obvious should anyone venture down the driveway from the highway.

The seasonably cold air put a sharp edge on the wind.  I didn't have a jacket, but hoped that walking around the place might keep me warm.

Reaching over the back of the seat, I grabbed the camera from the back and got out of the car.    I looked around for No Trespassing signs.  There weren't any. The gravel crunching under my boots sounded unnaturally loud as I crossed the deserted parking lot.

The place was abandoned, but not forsaken, if that makes sense.  It's like some sort of Satanic rapture had occurred, maybe ten minutes earlier, taking only the bad guys.  Whoosh!  At first glance, everything appeared exactly the same as it must have at the close of business on the last day of operation, two years previously.  At second glance, I noticed the tumbleweeds.  At third - the unlocked gate.


One of the main gates to the prison yard was unlocked and open.  Just a foot or so.  Just wide enough for me to slide through sideways or to grasp the edge and pull it wide.  If I wanted too.  No one was around... No one would see...

Through a feat of super-human resistance that King David himself would have been jealous of, I bested the temptation and managed not to go through the gate to the interior spaces.

This prison - a privately run, for-profit, institution - was big into razor wire.  It's everywhere - roll upon roll of it.  The state prisons I've visited use the same concertina-type stuff, but sparingly.  This place looked cheap -like an over-sized dog run, home to really bad dogs.  Low tech security with all the soft, pleasing architecture of Auschwitz.

The main buildings up front are painted in a vague flag motif.  Blocks of blue with bits of red and white striping at the edges.  It lends a concentration camp carnival feel to the place.  The administration buildings at the front of the unit were bright and clean.  In the back a long row of barracks type buildings comprised the inmate housing.  They were  dingy, low slung cinder block buildings - chalky white with tiny windows.

An omnipresent, continual high pitched whine permeated the area. As I circled the property, I finally located the source - a large metal box, about the size on an industrial refrigerator.  Or two.  The hunk of metal was painted orange and black with no markings that would identify it to the uninitiated.  It sat on a concrete pad next to the electric meters.  And whined - a single toneless note, on and on and on to extremely creepy effect.  It reminded me of something...

(Anyone else watch The Avengers?  Anyone remember this episode?)

I continued my circuit around the property.  Past the electric meters,  I saw that the gas meters were gone.  But the sewage grinder remained.

More than once as I swept my camera lens past the guard towers, I thought I caught a glimpse of men inside.    Only a trick of the light and closer inspection revealed nothing, of course, but it remained disconcerting.  I seldom see men who aren't there.

Still I didn't see any "No Trespassing" signs.  No, not one.  I was surprised by this, but I supposed no one really wants to break INTO prison, so trespassing isn't really an issue.  There were, however, a couple of "STOP - Entering Restricted Area" signs.  As they were obviously left-overs from the facility's functioning days, and since they barely made any effort with them - small signs tacked to telephone poles on the sides of the path/road leading to the back of the location - I ignored them with impunity and no small amount of disdain.
   

I didn't spend much time in the back of the prison.  The wind blew harder there and my shirt, albeit long-sleeved, was woefully inadequate.

As I made my way back around to the front I stopped.  Dead.

The gates were still open.  But now they were open wide.  Beckoning.  Yawning.  Tempting.

It was dodgy for a bit.  I reeeeaallly wanted to go inside.  They were practically begging me to enter!  I texted the Judge's assistant and asked her what the district's policy is on posting bail for employees.  She didn't answer.  I decided not to chance it.  Besides, it was damn creepy.  The wind wasn't blowing hard enough to move those chain-link monstrosities. And it almost certainly wouldn't have moved the gates in opposite directions!

I made my way back to the car, glancing back over my shoulder a time or two.  The only sign, other than the empty parking lot, that this place wasn't ready and waiting for business, were the few small tumble weeds gathered at the main entrance.

That, and the open, viciously welcoming, prison gate.

As I drove back towards the highway, I was startled to see a FedEx van turn onto the short road and head out towards the prison parking lot.  I made a half-hearted attempt to stop him - to tell him his GPS was obviously misguided.  He didn't see me.  I was sort of glad.  I felt sure that if I did see him up close, he'd have no eyeballs.  Or maybe vampire fangs.  Or stink of death like a zombie.  Yep, pretty sure.

(Do you see 'em?  The guards that aren't there?)

Spur is one of numerous small towns in West Texas that attempted urban renewal via the prison-industrial complex, profit-driven or governmental.  For a few short years it seemed to be a real economic savior.  But we're all learning we can't sustain, economically or otherwise, a prison system that has a higher incarceration rate than China.  

This month it was reported that the Texas Association of Business, one of the most powerful lobbies in the state, is making reform of criminal justice funding a priority.  Why?  

Bill Hammond, president of the Texas Association of Business, said the group plans to push to expand successful rehabilitation and community-based corrections programs; to change Texas’ drug-sentencing laws to put more low-level offenders in local treatment programs and reduce penalties for small amounts of drugs; and to modify state licensing laws that keep some ex-convicts from ever becoming certified for various trades.

“We’re sending too many people to the slammer,” Hammond said. “The taxpayers and the business community are both being harmed.”

I think this is a good thing.  But then, I would, what with being all "community-based corrections program"-y and stuff.

All I really know is those damn gates didn't open by themselves.